Falling into Grace
by Arynn Octavia
Summary: Father Castiel, a Jesuit Priest in the midst of struggling with his own personal demons— doubt, longing, and a harsh past that may have lead him down the wrong path—finds himself embroiled in a literal demonic battle. Only faith can save him, but faith in what? The path of least resistance isn't always the right one. Slash.
1. Chapter One

_"We are all wonderful, beautiful wrecks._  
 _That's what connects us-that we're_  
 _all broken, all beautifully imperfect."_  
― Emilio Estevez

Chapter One

Castiel stepped off the elevator, tightening his grip on the briefcase as he cast his gaze about the hall around him. He had been in this hospital many times in the past few years. He was so familiar with its layout, he could probably navigate the halls blindfolded. The psychiatric inpatient unit, the ICU, cardiology, geriatrics, the post-surgical unit, the ER, and his favorite— maternity… he knew it all so well that when perfect strangers who got lost walking through the halls would ask him for help finding their way, he could always give them detailed directions to guide them.

In all the time he had spent at this hospital, he was always glad that he had never had to visit this particular ward. That would change today.

The spacious corridor was brightly lit, with a semi-enclosed nurses' station situated directly in the middle. The walls around the corridor contained large windows, flooding the area with plenty of natural light. Two short halls, situated at a forty-five degree angle from each other, stretched out from the area on the other side of the desk, opposite the elevators. A sign hanging above the nurse's station read **Pediatric Oncology** , so Castiel knew he was in the right place, though the desk below the sign was currently unmanned. Down one of the hallways he could see an open area, and from it he could hear a woman's voice speaking, so he made his way toward that voice. As he approached, her words became clearer, and he could hear that she was reading from _The Princess Bride_.

As soon as he had rounded the corner there was a soft gasp, and he found a small hand grabbing one of his own, pulling him into what looked like some sort of lounge or day room. He was unceremoniously deposited at a tiny table, sitting in a chair that was so low, his knees came up to his chest. He was joined by his captor, a girl of about ten and dressed as a fairy, who sat to his right. Another girl who may have been a couple years younger sat to his left, and a boy of about three sat across from him, drawing a picture with extra-thick crayons.

Across the room, a nurse with a round, friendly face sat reading. When he caught her eye, she nodded in acknowledgement of his presence, but didn't pause in her reading.

He was handed a clean piece of paper by the younger girl, and a blue crayon by the fairy, who leaned in whispering in his ear that he should use that one, because it matched his eyes.

He took it from her, asking, "What am I supposed to be drawing?"

"Draw Princess Buttercup."

"No, draw a dinosaur," the young boy requested from across the table.

"Hmmm, how about I draw Princess Buttercup riding a dinosaur?" Castiel asked.

The girl thought about it for a moment before nodding enthusiastically. The boy just shrugged noncommittally, so Castiel followed their orders, drawing the princess on the back of a dinosaur.

After a few minutes, a boy of about eight who had been sitting at the nurse's feet listening to the story wandered over to their table to watch the newcomer draw for a moment, before pointing at the picture and asking, "What is that?"

"That is princess buttercup riding on a stegosaurus," Castiel informed the young patient.

"Can you teach me to draw a stegosaurus? You draw them good. That's my favorite dinosaur."

"It's my favorite dinosaur too," Castiel informed the boy, while vacating his chair so that the boy could take his spot. He moved instead to the floor, between the new boy and the fairy, sitting back on his haunches and directing the boy on the basic shapes that would make the rough outline of the dinosaur. Pretty soon, everyone who had been at the table, joined by two more children, was drawing stegosauruses. Castiel had moved away from the table to make room for all of them, instead walking around the group on his knees, giving pointers whenever asked for help.

A young boy who had been sitting alone nearby came and stood near Castiel, grabbing his face in both hands, and turning the man's head so he could look deep into his eyes. The boy tilted Castiel's head slightly, as if to see the man better, then asked, "Are you an angel?"

"I don't know. What do you think?" Castiel responded.

"You probably are," the child replied, "even if you don't know it, yet."

The man chuckled to himself, thanking the child for the compliment, before the child joined the others at the now cramped table. Castiel turned and sat facing the story-teller, remaining close enough that he could still help the young artists, if one of them asked for it.

When the nurse reached the end of the chapter, she announced that there would be a short break before she would continue the story, then stood, making her way toward Castiel. He stood too, to greet her. Her scrubs were brightly colored -soft pink bottoms and a top so covered with multicolored cartoon cats, he couldn't even see a background.

"Hello, Father!" She reached out a hand as she introduced herself, "I'm Nurse Zoey Barkow. How can I help you today?"

He shook her offered hand while introducing himself. "Hello, Ms. Barkow. I'm Father Castiel, from St. Anthony's. I'm looking for Susie Vanderbilt."

"Oh, yes! She usually joins us for story time, but her mother came to see her today. I'll bring you to her room."

Before he followed her out, he turned toward the table, bowing and saying, "Excuse me gentlemen and ladies. I must go now."

The children all said their goodbyes, and waved him off, the oldest girl giggling and blushing as she did so. He followed the friendly nurse further down the hall, stopping outside a room about halfway to the end. She ushered him in, but didn't enter herself, instead turning and heading back toward the room in which he had found her.

Inside, there were two beds. The closest was empty, but unmade. Its occupant must be down the hall with the other children he saw. Upon the farther bed sat Susie, an eight-year-old whose cherubic face could usually be found haloed in ringlets of mousy brown hair, but instead was sporting a pink and yellow bandana tied Rosie the Riveter-style over a perfectly hairless dome. She was currently reading. Between the two beds, in a comfortable looking armchair slumped Susie's mother, catching what must be a rare nap for the single working mother of a child with cancer. As quietly as possible, Castiel approached the little girl.

Seeing the other children in the ward, all in varying stages of receiving cancer treatment, had been hard enough. Though he liked children, none of those children had been previously know to him. Seeing Susie in that hospital bed, hairless and looking thinner than he had ever seen her, was a bit harder. He was used to seeing her during mass, dressed in her Sunday finest and struggling to pay attention like every other child her age.

"Hello, Susie," Castiel whispered, loud enough for Susie to hear, but quiet enough not to wake her mother.

"Father Castiel! Have you come to anoint me?"

"I have, if that's what you'd like. I also brought communion for you and your mother, since you couldn't come to mass on Sunday."

"Oh, good! Father Robert has been coming the last few weeks, but I was hoping to see you this week."

"Is that right? Well, would you like to wait for your mother to wake up?"

"Anointing now, please," the girl requested. "We can wait for mom to wake up for the communion. Communion means 'sharing,' after all. It's better to do that with company."

"You're very smart, Susie."

"Thank you, Father!"

Castiel took a smaller zippered pouch out of his briefcase and opened it, pulling a small bottle out. As he did so, Susie removed the bandana from her head. He opened the bottle and tipped a bit of the oil inside on to his thumb, before stretching his arm out toward the girl, drawing a cross on her forehead as he began to speak.

"Through this holy anointing, may the Lord in his love and mercy help you with the grace of the Holy Spirit."

He moved the thumb to her hands, anointing each of them as he continued, "May the Lord who frees you from sin save you and raise you up."

A big grin blossomed on the girl's face. "Thank you, father."

"You are welcome." He returned her smile. "So how have things been going?"

"We finished chemotherapy, and I'm eating a little better. Plus, I think my hair is starting to grow back!"

He put a serious look on his face, though the mirth in his eyes was still obvious. "Well, let me see." He made a show of inspecting her head. Sure enough, there was a hint of stubble on her otherwise bare head. "Why, yes," he confirmed. "Are you going to keep shaving it? I think it makes you look pretty tough."

"It does?" She sounded skeptical.

"It certainly does," he confirmed. "You could join the Marine Corps."

"No thank you, I don't want to fight wars! Maybe the Peace Corps."

"See," he replied, "I knew you were smart."

She smiled at him, before adding, "Besides, you know I want to be a marine BIOLOGIST, not a Marine."

"Ah, that's right! You want to study the biology of Marines," he joked with her.

She was giggling like a maniac by now. "No, silly! I want to study the biology of marine ANIMALS."

"So which marine animal is your favorite?"

"I like sharks."

That surprised Castiel. "I was expecting you to say something like the dolphin."

"Oh, I like dolphins okay, but sharks are an apex predator, and some kinds can live more than 200 years!"

Before Castiel could respond, a voice piped in from behind, startling him. "She's a bit obsessed with different animals' lifespans right now."

He turned to see the girl's mother fully awake, sitting upright in her chair. He wondered how long she had been up, sitting so close behind him. To ease the awkwardness of standing with his posterior practically in the woman's face, he moved toward the foot of the bed to include the mother in their conversation as he replied, "Well, it sounds like you're well on your way to becoming a marine biologist."

* * *

He gave both ladies communion, soon after which Susie announced that she was ready for a nap, so Castiel accompanied Ms. Vanderbilt to a small family consult room a few doors down the hall. Inside were a small table, a few chairs, and a coffee machine set up in the corner. Castiel poured two coffees, and joined Ms. Vanderbilt at the table, passing one to her as he sat.

"I'm sorry we woke you. You must be exhausted. I can't imagine what it's like to be in your position." He looked her in the eyes, trying to convey his sympathy.

"I've cut back to working part-time –you know, family sick leave. Thankfully, insurance is covering her treatment. Money hasn't been a problem, yet. I just feel I'm facing this all alone." She reached out and grabbed his hand in both of hers.

"You're not alone," he tried to comfort her, putting his other hand over both of hers. "You have Susie, and the medical staff here. You have your friends and family, and the community at the parish. We've been praying for you both every day." He didn't bother adding God to the list. He knew she was craving a more tangible support system.

"I so miss having a man in my life." As she spoke, she began rubbing her fingertips across his hand. "Someone to confide in. Someone to hold. Someone to kiss."

Her hands no longer gripped his tightly, desperately looking for consolation. Her touches had turned exploratory, and more importantly, inappropriate. He had to put a stop to it quickly, while trying to remain sensitive to her fragile mental state. He pulled back from her touch, but with purpose, turning his body slightly away to reach down into his briefcase, which sat on the floor on his other side. Pulling two rosaries out, he handed one to her, and suggested they pray.

It wasn't the first time a parishioner had tried to hint at romantic interest. The collar alone, he had learned shortly after entering seminary, was alluring to some people, sometimes to the point of fetishization. Beyond those thankfully rare circumstances, a few parishioners had responded to his earnest and compassionate demeanor with confessions of attraction, or the occasional clumsy pass. The fact that he was a young and relatively good looking man didn't help.

He always tried to hold peoples' gaze when he spoke with them, not only as a non-verbal means to show that he was engaged in the conversation, but to covey his sincerity. In her current emotionally vulnerable state, it is understandable that Ms. Vanderbilt could confuse the situation, leading her to reach out inappropriately to anyone who showed her kindness and empathy. He didn't want to add embarrassment to her current torments, so he didn't acknowledge her blunder.

Instead, they prayed the rosary together. Afterward, he spoke with her about illness, death, and justice, answering any questions she had, and not falling back on any of the typical platitudes that grieving people often hear.

As the conversation was winding down, she thanked him. "Most people I've talked to about this try to tell me that Susie's illness is God's will. If one more person tells me that there's a reason for everything that's happening to us right now, I swear, I'm going to scream."

He chuckled with her. "God didn't do this. Susie just had some brain cells that started reproducing abnormally and invading her healthy tissue."

"You know, you've been there for her more than her own father ever was." She reached up to run her fingers through his hair. The movement came so out of nowhere; Castiel found himself jerking away in response. Unfortunately, this didn't dissuade her.

"I wish there was some way I could show you how much I appreciate everything you do for us."

As she finished speaking, she let her hand slide down the side of his face and neck, stopping on his chest. She stepped closer to him, looking up into his startled eyes.

He had ignored her fumbling from before. He had experienced moments like that a few times over the years, and knew how to handle them. No one had actually hit on him this blatantly, though, and he found himself filling with panic.

"Ms. Vanderbilt-"

"Please, call me Kate."

"Ms. Vanderbilt, please step back. This is making me uncomfortable."

She pulled her hand away from his chest, but did not move her body away.

He continued speaking, trying to be firm but gentle. "You are very kind, and I can't imagine what you're going through right now, but you don't want to do this."

"Oh, but I do."

It looked like she was preparing to step closer, closing the already too-close distance between them, so he hastily interjected, "I don't want you to."

He held her gaze firmly, standing his ground and attempting to silently communicate how sincerely he wanted her to stop doing what she was attempting to do. It was a stern look, but he was desperate for her to heed it, as he doubted her fragile emotional state could withstand any verbal admonishment, no matter how carefully worded. He also needed her to be the one to back away, as he feared that a physical retreat on his part could be misread has a sign of weakness. He didn't want her to interpret his protests as reluctant in any way.

Finally, she broke eye contact, looking down at her own feet as she backed away, saying only, "I'm sorry."

"No, don't be," he offered quickly. He needed to let her down, make it very clear that nothing would ever happen between them, but he didn't want to make her feel bad. He needed to word what he wanted to say very carefully. "I fear you will already look back on this exchange in embarrassment, I don't want you to do anything that would make that worse."

The ball of tension in his gut loosened a bit when she chuckled at that. If she could laugh at herself, he probably hadn't just added to her turmoil.

"Letting me down so gently, is that supposed to make you less attractive to me?" She was still chuckling as she asked, but a hint of the same sad look she had had on her face at her daughter's bedside had crept back into her eyes. Despite this look, he still hoped she had said that in jest.

He could think of nothing else to say, so he responded with a sad smile of his own, before offering an intentionally over-formal valediction, "Be well, Ms. Vanderbilt. My prayers are with you and Susie."

The woman only nodded.

He turned and made his way back into the hall, shutting the door behind him to give the grieving mother some privacy. On his way out, he nodded toward the nurse, who was now sitting at the nurses station's desk near the elevators.

"Father," she replied, nodding in return.

It wasn't until he had made it into the thankfully empty elevator and the doors had closed behind him that the knot in his gut completely unwound. He let out a cathartic sigh, collapsing back against the wall of the elevator and trying to force relaxation into his neck and shoulders, causing his head to fall back into the elevator wall with more force than he had intended. He winced at the impact, but remained otherwise still, not even pressing a button for close to a minute, savoring the solitude of the elevator car.

* * *

Later that night, as he was preparing for bed, Castiel made himself a cup of chamomile tea in the kitchen of the rectory. Walking by the study on his way back to his room, he noticed Father Robert sitting alone inside, already dressed in his nightclothes, over which he wore a plaid dressing gown. He appeared to be relaxing, flipping through a magazine but not actually reading it. After some thought earlier in the day, Castiel had decided that he should tell the man about what had happened at the hospital.

Castiel knocked. When the older priest looked up at him, he spoke, "Hello, Father Robert. Do you possibly have some time for me to speak with you?"

"Yes, come in, Castiel. How many times must I tell you? Call me Bobby."

"Thank you, sir."

Castiel sat, setting his tea on the table between their chairs, before continuing. "You take my confession, Father Robert. I'm not comfortable calling you Bobby."

The man rolled his eyes, but otherwise didn't respond, instead changing the subject. "What can I do for you, Castiel?"

Castiel hesitated. "I… visited Susie Vanderbilt in the hospital today. While I was there, Ms. Vanderbilt made a pass at me."

The older man looked sternly over his reading glasses at him. "You weren't tempted, were you?"

Castiel let out a soft sigh of frustration. Normally, the older priest's lighthearted teasing didn't bother him. In fact, he had not only come to enjoy the man's insight and support in his time serving under him, but had grown to appreciate his sarcastic sense of humor and surprising irreverence –given his profession– as well.

Today had been hard to deal with, though. Precocious children with cancer, desperate and confused mothers who were struggling to cope…plus, he hadn't been the object of someone's sexual attraction, at least not someone so blatant about it, in a long time.

"Of course you weren't," the older priest said, chuckling at the absurdity of his own question.

"I just thought you should know, as her parish priest," Castiel explained. "It was most likely a response to the tremendous level of stress she must be under with Susie. Still, she was more forward about it than I have ever seen; if this wasn't just a response to her current situation… I'm scheduled to begin my tertianship soon. When you are assigned a new curate-"

"Ah yes, the looming tertianship," the older man interrupted, "How are you feeling about that? I haven't had the occasion to speak with many Jesuits in my life."

"Honestly?" Castiel began, "I don't know. I am certain I feel called to serve, to help people wherever and however I can, but…" he looked down, grabbing his tea and bringing it to his lips as an excuse to not have to look the other man in the eye as he said this, "some days, I don't even know if I believe in God."

"I think that any priest who hasn't struggled with doubts –at least on some level– is probably guilty of not thinking deeply enough about his faith," the older man paused here, waiting until Castiel looked up at him before he continued, wanting to make sure his point hit home. "Of all the things you could be accused of, Castiel, 'not thinking' could never be one of them. You are one of the most brilliant men I'll ever meet, and I'm not just talkin' about your education. You're perceptive; you're intuitive, not only about the world around you, but also about yourself. You're a born logician, and you analyze everything about everything. Maybe too much. Even looking at the most beautiful, priceless work of art, you would see the cracks."

Castiel tried not to take offense at that. He knew what Father Robert said was true, and that he was trying to comfort him, but that didn't make it any easier to deal with his doubts, the fact that he was worried he had taken a wrong turn in devoting his life to the Catholic Church. "Sometimes the cracks are part of what makes it beautiful."

"You WOULD say something like that." Shaking his head, the man smiled fondly at the younger priest.

"Speaking of the cracks," he began again, delicately, "how have you been sleeping?"

Castiel looked up at the man. They had spoken about this many times, talking about his symptoms without ever actually putting a name to the cause. Though they had both danced around the topic, Castiel knew that they were both aware of what he was referring to: PTSD.

"I've been sleeping well. I still get the occasional nightmare. Meditation and running help."

He would have added prayer, but they would both know he would be lying. He had stopped praying for miracles years ago.

"Good, Castiel. I wouldn't want you to dwell on the undeserved torments of your youth."

* * *

A/N: For anyone interested, my story "Falling into Grace: Companion Pieces" is a collection of disconnected chapters that happen in the same timeline as this story, but for whatever reason (alternate POV, flow...) don't quite fit into the story itself. The first chapter of "Companion Pieces" is a prequel to this story.


	2. Chapter Two

***  
Warning: This chapter contains detailed descriptions of "conversion therapy" (a.k.a "reparative therapy"), which anyone and everyone with a heart will find disgusting, sad, and/or disturbing.  
***

* * *

"Faith was the excuse you used  
if you didn't have a good argument"  
-Robert Fritz

Chapter Two

 _Fifteen year old Castiel finds himself following the doctor down an overly bright hallway, thinking, not for the first time, that its appearance must be intended to be part of the punishment of being here, the punishment he had received when his father had found the stack of magazines and pictures that Castiel had obviously not hidden well enough in his room, and loudly declared, "No son of mine is going to be a faggot!"_

 _The walls in the admitting and visitation areas of the clinic, the ones where his parents had dropped him off two weeks ago, and had sat with him every Saturday afternoon and Wednesday evening since then, are painted a soft bluish-grey color, adorned with various paintings and posters meant to inspire and comfort, and were bathed in natural light, courtesy the seemingly ubiquitous large windows in those areas._

 _That represented a sharp contrast to the narrower corridors and rooms that permeated the inpatient-only areas of the clinic, where the only light came from the harsh fluorescent tubes shining through the frosted white translucent panels set too closely together into the white drop ceilings. In these rooms and halls, the complete barrenness of the institutionally stark white walls is interrupted only by the occasional white door, framed with seamless flat nondescript white molding that also performs double-duty as the seamless flat nondescript white baseboard along the perimeter of the white floor. It isn't even a tiled floor, offering lines of grout between the tiles to contrast with and break up all the white. It's a white vinyl floor seemingly made of a single continuous sheet._

 _Each component is the exact same shade of white. How is that even possible? Even the frosted chrome latches, and push and pull plates on the doors look white, because that same shade of white is all that exists to reflect off their metallic surfaces. In fact, for his first few days here, Castiel had assumed they actually were the same white color, until he had gotten close enough to one to see the slightly distorted reflection of his own face on its surface._

 _You can't even find respite from the constant assault of the white in your own shadow. The lights in the ceiling are placed too close together to allow shadows. Artists and philosophers are right when they point out that without shadows, there can exist no depth. The relentless whiteness makes everything feel flat, and not just in the spatial sense. He had even begun thinking that nothing could remain hidden in this stark, harsh whiteness, even his own thoughts._

 _He had been looking at all this white for so long, he felt it had been burned permanently into his corneas. It is all he can see, even when he closes his eyes._

 _In one of his therapy sessions with Dr. Robbins, he had mentioned his thoughts on how the environment was designed to be part of the punishment._

" _This isn't meant as a punishment," had been the doctor's reply. "This is meant to help you lead a normal, healthy, fulfilling life."_

 _They had yet to explain to him exactly how torture was supposed to help him lead a normal, healthy, fulfilling life, but he had learned rather quickly that questioning their methods never ended well, so he didn't bother to ask._

 _Knowing that resistance would only make things worse for him, he obediently follows the doctor down the hall now. The doctor's white lab coat matches the white of everything else, but his white hair is a blessedly different shade, so Castiel focuses on that as they make their way to the "aversion therapy" room, the only room in which Castiel regularly sees color. Despite his deep craving for something other than white, he finds himself feeling more and more sick to his stomach the closer they get to the room._

 _When they reach the room and the doctor opens the door for him, Castiel enters the bright room right away, automatically making his way forward toward the single white chair in the middle._

 _On Castiel's first morning at the clinic, the morning after his parents had dropped him off, he had been ushered into this room and told to sit in this chair. He had been slightly alarmed by the presence of the soft restraints that were built in to the arms and front legs of the chair. It reminded him of an electric chair. When he had hesitated to sit, the nurse and doctor had each grabbed an arm and forced him down into it the chair, though thankfully they hadn't fastened the restraints around his wrists or ankles. An IV, however, had been inserted into his arm. When he had asked the nurse in the white (of course) uniform what the IV was for, he had been told it was to keep him hydrated, which he thought was odd. Would they be leaving him in this chair for long periods of time? What if he had to pee?_

 _That first time in the room, as the nurse had left she had turned the lights in the room off, and everything was thrown into shadows, except for a large rectangle of light on the wall in front of Castiel. Curious, he had turned to look at the doctor beside him, who was fiddling with a small remote control. Turning further to look behind himself, Castiel saw that the square of light on the wall was actually coming from a small projector on the cart which the nurse had left behind after inserting his IV. The cart was sitting beside his IV stand, on which hung a clear bag, linked to his own circulatory system via a length of clear tubing going into his left arm._

 _On the cart beside the projector, there had been a syringe and a small vial containing a clear liquid._

 _Finally, the doctor spoke, instructing him only to watch the screen, and to report any mental or physical changes to the doctor as they arose. Curious, Castiel had turned back toward the rectangle of light. After a moment, a picture of a man had appeared. It looked to Castiel like it was a print ad for glasses that might appear in some fashion magazine, but it contained no text. Thirty seconds later, it disappeared and was replaced by another picture, this one of a different man, though it also appeared to be an image from an ad campaign. After 30 more seconds, this one had also been replaced by a new photo, another modeling-type shot depicting a man wearing a lose button-up shirt with only the buttons in the lower half of the shirt fastened. This one, in turn, had been replaced with another photo, this time showing a muscular man wearing only jeans and a cowboy hat. After another 30 seconds, that had been replaced by a black and white photo of a shirtless man leaning back against a plain grey background, his jeans unbuttoned and unzipped, revealing the waistband of his Calvin Kline underwear. Why were they showing him advertising?_

 _Similar images had kept appearing. Castiel had noticed that in each photo, the man would be showing slightly more skin than the man in the previous image. He wondered where they were going with this, when an artistic picture of a completely nude man had been replaced by a photo of an overly muscular naked man rubbing oil across his chest, which had been replaced with a naked man standing proudly, staring into the camera lens, his own penis firmly in hand._

 _Castiel had shifted uncomfortably in his chair then, hyper-aware of the doctor, not three feet away, watching him intently. Was it legal for the man to be showing these pictures to Castiel? Did this not count as child abuse, or at least corruption of a minor? Castiel was only 15, definitely below the age of consent. He was beginning to feel a bit queasy._

 _In the time it had taken him to ponder these thoughts, his attention had slipped, but it had been dragged violently back toward the screen when a video had appeared, its moving images replacing whatever static photo had come before it. In the video, a naked man lay back on a bed, stroking his own hardened member, his gaze traveling between an intense focus on the camera lens, and looking down at his own hand as it stroked up and down, up and down._

 _Oh, god! The video had sound too! The man on the screen had made small grunting noises as the rate of his breathing slowly increased to match the steadily quickening rhythm of his pumping hand, the occasional moan or short verbalization peppered throughout. Castiel could feel his own body beginning to respond, the bottoms of the white night clothes that he had been given, which he had to wear 24/7, starting to feel a tad too tight and far too inadequate to hide the reaction of his body._

 _Suddenly, a wave of nausea hit him, contrasting painfully with the wave of arousal that was already pulling him under._

" _How are you feeling, young man?" the doctor had inquired, obviously aware of Castiel's distress._

" _I feel like I'm going to be sick." Castiel's voice, already uncommonly low for a boy his age, had sounded even gruffer than usual, though whether from the arousal or the nausea, Castiel honestly didn't know._

 _The doctor had made a note on the clipboard he held, but otherwise had appeared unconcerned._

 _The video had been interrupted by a new series of pictures, cycling faster this time, each depicting two men together, though each picture, again, showed different men. As this series of pictures advanced, the men not only revealed incrementally more skin, but got closer to each other. The last few images in the series showed nude men merely touching each other's chest, then kissing, then grasping each other's genitalia. This last picture was replaced by a new video showing one nude man on his knees, giving another man standing over him a blowjob._

 _A layer of sweat was appearing on Castiel's brow now, but it definitely wasn't from arousal. As the new set of still images had progressed, the nausea had overcome the arousal, and Castiel had found his growing erection beginning to falter. By the time the video depicting the blow job had appeared, his erection had totally gone, his nausea, on the other hand, had reached new heights._

 _The video was again interrupted, this time by different video depicting two new men having sex, one bent forward over a table as the other stood behind him, pounding into him hard and fast._

" _I think I'm going to-" Castiel had tried to warn the doctor, hoping the man had time to pass him a garbage can or something, but it was too late. Instead, he vomited uncontrollably into his own lap._

" _Look at the screen, Castiel." The doctor had admonished him. Instead, Castiel had looked up at the doctor in bewilderment. Did he not just notice his teenage patient, sitting only a few feet away, vomiting all over himself?_

" _The screen, Castiel!" The man said, more sternly. When Castiel did not immediately move to obey, the doctor had grabbed his face roughly, getting sick on his fingers in the process, to force the young man's gaze back toward the screen. The two men continued to grind and pound against each other in the video, while chunks of vomit slowly dripped down Castiel's chin._

 _Castiel couldn't remember much more from the rest of that first day, except that he had spent most of it sleeping, interspersed with occasional bouts of violent vomiting._

 _The next day, he had blessedly felt better, and was quite upset during his morning therapy session with the doctor, wondering why he hadn't seemed concerned the previous day when his patient had developed a sudden case of food poisoning, or whatever that had been._

 _It was only then that Castiel had learned that the previous day had gone exactly as the doctor had hoped it would. Apparently, the clear liquid in that little vial on the tray had been something called apomorphine, a drug that induces nausea, and had been administered to Castiel specifically to make him sick while looking at homoerotic imagery. Apparently, Castiel still had the IV in because three more similar treatments would come in the next week as part of "Phase One" of his aversion therapy._

 _Castiel had never been happier than he was the day his last treatment with apomorphine was done. A day later, when the IV had finally been taken out, he had almost jumped for joy._

 _That is, until he found out what "Phase Two" was._

 _He is now about to get his 21st treatment in "Phase Two." During some of the earlier treatments in this phase, he had sat down in the chair at this point, and in later sessions had at least hesitated before stopping himself from doing so, a small bubble of hope attempting to build in his gut that this treatment would be slightly different than the previous ones in this phase. That bubble had long since been crushed, however. This time, when the nurse wheels her cart in, Castiel automatically pulls his pants down, revealing his exposed penis to the nurse._

 _She picks it up in a white-gloved hand, and with all the emotional detachment of a machine, pulls a thin strip of metal that has been bent into the shape of a C up around his flaccid penis. There is a wire attached to the curved strip of metal, leading toward a machine on the nurse's cart. The metal strip is bent to a slightly smaller circumference than his penis, so she has to gently pull the two edges apart to make room for his girth. When it is situated half-way between the tip and base, she lays it back down and tells him to sit in the chair._

 _He knows not to struggle, lest they use the restraints to hold him down. Somehow, those restraints make it worse –physical reminders of how trapped he really is. He lifts his right arm to allow her to pull a cuff up over his hand. This cuff, also attached to wires leading to the machine on the cart, is tightened around his arm, just below the elbow. When he had first seen the cuff, he had assumed it was to take his blood pressure._

 _It is not._

 _When every device has been placed and the connections all checked, the lights are cut and the treatment begins._

 _More pictures of men appear on the screen. In his two weeks here, Castiel doesn't think he's seen the same man in a picture or video more than once. With his four treatments in his first week, and his four a day in the week since, that must mean the doctor's collection of gay pornography is far more extensive than the few pictures Castiel's father had found hidden in his bedroom, especially given that what Castiel had hidden away from his parents and older brothers had only amounted to the men's underwear sections of his mother's catalogues from various department stores and other pictures cut out of magazines. If Castiel is the sick one, punished like this for the way pictures like that made him feel, the doctor's collection should warrant a jail sentence._

 _Dread is already pooling in Castiel's gut as the pictures cycle. He's gotten pretty good now, better at not reacting. Focusing on the fact that the doctor is nearby, watching his every move helps. As does focusing on the fact that the room is just slightly cooler than is comfortable without clothing, the chill unpleasant on his exposed penis and thighs, his pants still bunched up around his knees. Despite this, once in a while something in a picture or video will still affect him._

 _This time, it's a clip from a video that does it. A particularly good looking man pushes another man back against a wall, hands on either side of the other man's head, trapping him in place, not that the man against the wall seems to mind. The men's eyes are locked on each other. They're both obviously into it, and it's not their erections that give it away._

 _Castiel has seen a lot of erections in the past two weeks, but he's also seen a lot of bored, detached looks._

 _These two men are different. These two men feel something for each other. As they kiss, Castiel wonders if they're actually a couple. When their kiss breaks long enough for the bigger man to spin the one against the wall around, pressing his chest to the wall instead, Castiel starts to feel his body responding, and his dread deepens._

 _The larger man holds his stiff organ steady, slowly pushing it into the man against the wall, who cries out in pleasure, bringing his own hands up against the surface in front of him, using it to push himself back against the other man. The larger man's free hand comes up to cover one of the other man's against the wall, and their fingers intertwine as their bodies connect more deeply._

 _Castiel's body betrays him. More blood has rushed into his penis, engorging it just enough that the machine activates. He feels an electric shock from the cuff around his arm. The electrocution startles him, and he pulls his arm protectively into his chest as a reflex, but immediately lays it back down on the arm of the chair, before the doctor has to warn him. This is always worse when he's trapped in the restraints._

 _The shock makes his growing erection falter, but it doesn't completely go away. He prays silently to himself that this video ends soon, to be replaced with the empty sex that most of these images and videos seem to depict. He doesn't want to see real emotion like this, two people who crave each other as people, not just who desire each other's bodies._

 _It doesn't end, though. The taller man, once his penis in fully planted in the other man, brings his newly freed hand around to the other man's organ, pumping in time to his own movements. The shorter man utters a breathy, "yes," pulling the taller man's hand, the one whose fingers are still entwined in his own, across his own chest. The tall man, following the shorter man's lead, wraps him in an embrace, arm around his chest pulling him closer to his own. The smaller man turns his head and twists his body around just enough so their lips can meet again. Their movements are all slow and leisurely, but no less needy than the frantic need of the other videos. This is a different kind of need, though, one that Castiel finds so much sexier…_

 _Another shock, stronger this time, jolts through his body. He knows they will keep getting stronger if his erection keeps growing. He prays again, begging for God to change him, to make him not feel this way._

 _The video relentlessly continues. The two men explore each other more, their slow, relaxed pace giving way to something with a higher intensity. Castiel receives a few more shocks as they continue, the intensity of the electrocution growing along with that depicted on the screen. His penis is still hardening, though there are tears streaming down his cheeks. The last shock had hurt bad enough that he had found himself looking down to see if it had started to make his skin bleed. Not only were the shocks getting stronger, but the contact points of the electrodes had overstimulated his flesh raw, making it more sensitive to pain in the process. When would this video end?_

 _The men on screen are both approaching orgasm, he can tell. The smaller man gets there first, crying out and pushing back into the other man, who follows moments later. An unbearable shock blasts through Castiel's body, making him actually scream out in pain._

He jolted awake, head filling with the echoes of that long-ago panic. He hated dreams like this. Afterward, it took him a while, sometimes, to remember that he wasn't a teenager any more, stuck again in his own personal hell. Finally, his awareness focused, and he registered that he was safely in his own bed in the rectory, and not in that white chair in that white room that he just couldn't forget.

He sat up, moving to sit on the edge of the bed and attempting to calm himself, wiping away the tears that fell from his eyes in his sleep. His regular nightmares were bad enough, the symbolic ones that merely reminded him of that time in his life. The ones in which he was forced to relive it were so much worse.

After he had been let out of that clinic, his treatments had continued for another month, though thankfully only once a week, rather than the four times a day that he had endured in his last week at the clinic.

They had changed as well, to "Phase Three." It wasn't enough that they eliminate his attraction to men. They wanted to encourage his attraction to women. He didn't know if that worked for the bisexual kids they treated, but Castiel had no attraction to women to begin with, and nothing they did to him seemed to change that. In Phase Three, the slides would show just a woman, or just a man. He would get a shock whenever a man was on screen, and would be safe when a woman was on screen. Still painful, but at least he got to keep his pants on.

In addition to the continued treatments with Dr. Robbins, Castiel was put into religious counseling with his family priest. He found these session helpful, but they did have one big drawback. Unlike the things he said during his usual confessions with the old man, which the priest was bound not to reveal, the priest did talk to his parents about what he said during these counseling sessions. His father had taken to beating him whenever the priest's reports didn't go the way his father expected them to.

That wasn't bad at first. When he had first been let out of the clinic, his interest in anything remotely sexual seemed to be gone, but about six months after he was released from the clinic, things had changed. He had started taking notice of good looking men again. He had started to get an excited feeling in his gut when he'd talk to a cute guy at school again. Not long after his 16th birthday, he had even started masturbating again, always thinking about men.

When he would mention this, his priest always stressed to him how important it was to fight those feelings, how sick it made the Lord, how much he needed to strive to have those kinds of feelings toward woman instead.

He had tried looking at the girls at school whenever he noticed a guy. Whenever watching a movie or TV show with a love story, if he caught himself staring longingly at the man, he would purposefully redirect his gaze at the woman. He had tried thinking about women when he touched himself, just like Dr. Robbins had instructed him to do. None of it worked.

"I can't father, I've tried."

He was filled with shame and self-hate. He was disgusting in the eyes of the Lord, and no matter how hard he tried, no matter how hard he prayed for God to change him, nothing changed.

In disgust, his father had finally sent him away to complete his last two years of high school in a Catholic school as far away from home as he could find, not wanting to have to see or hear about his son ever again. It was a prestigious all-boys school, which Castiel thought was an odd place to send your son for being gay, and temptation abounded. His feelings never went away, but he did get better at ignoring them. If he refused to look too closely at his emotional life, his shame and self-loathing would stay at a minimum.

The only peace he found was in studying. He had always been academically-oriented, and he threw himself with even more furor into his studies to bury everything else. He focused on his advanced placement coursework, the divinity and theology classes that his new school required, and the learning of foreign languages, which had always been not only an interest for him, but for which he seemed to have talent. If he filled his every waking moment with study, he wouldn't be forced to think about his inappropriate attraction to men.

He had had to petition the headmaster for special provision to allow him to take extra classes, beyond the usual maximum number of credits allowed per semester. Special dispensation had been allowed, though his progress would be monitored, and if his marks began slipping, he would be cut off. Outside of his regular class hours, he was allowed to take additional one-on-one classes on any subject with any instructor who agreed to do it. His instructors had all been impressed with this unusual young man, so passionate about learning and so devoted to the Lord. None of them knew that it was all something he needed, that his focus on his education had become his drug, his way to block and forget.

They wrote passionate letters of recommendation, getting him into the best colleges, getting him accepted into Societas Iesu to become a priest. He had thrown himself into academia and religion and burrowed in deep until he became comfortably numb. He needed all of it to focus on, so he could ignore how much he ached for the touch of another man.

And still, he prayed every night for the Lord to change him. His studies were his drug, but they were also his penance. If he did all of this, if he dedicated himself to service of the in Lord this way, maybe the Lord would forgive him for his disgusting urges, and make him change.

It was always the same. If I ace this class, God will change me. If I earn this degree, God will change me. His final hope was that when he became ordained, God would change him. But it had never happened. He had been a priest for nearly five years now, yet he still felt yearnings. As a Jesuit, he only had one more goal to focus on. His final vows, at the end of his period of tertianship, would mark his full acceptance into the order.

Only, something had changed now, though it was not the change he had been praying for. He had come to see that God was never going to change him. He had focused so well on his schooling. He had done so well in college. He had taken his first vows as a Jesuit 13 years ago, and had been dedicated to the process ever since. He might have always had his private doubts, but he had never let that stop him from upholding his original vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience. He had devoted himself to serving. He did everything right.

Yet still, he ached.

* * *

A/N: I know this chapter is a bit dark. :/

But the good news is that if, after reading this, you find yourself in need of a bit of fluffiness to counteract the heaviness in this chapter, chapter 2 of "Falling from Grace: Companion Pieces" (which I have also posted), will fulfill that need quite nicely. And, since I intend for it to be read before the next chapter of this story, now is the perfect time to go read it! Yay!

Additional information about conversion therapy IRL:  
Since numerous studies have shown that conversion therapy is not only ineffective at actually changing sexual orientation, but can also be harmful to the patient (duh!), a number of mental health organizations have adopted official positions advising against it.

Additionally, five US states (Vermont, California, New Jersey, Illinois, and Oregon), the US cities of Cincinnati, OH and Washington DC, the Canadian provinces of Ontario and Manitoba, and the country of Brazil have all passed laws prohibiting licensed mental health practitioners from using conversion therapy on minors. Efforts to enact similar bans are underway in a number of other states, provinces, and countries as well.


	3. Chapter Three

"I am, in fact, committed to being honest with myself so that I  
can overcome this situation. This includes not succumbing  
to the path of least resistance (denial) but rather the path  
of hardship which I know will lead to my evolution."  
-Luis Carlos Montalván

Chapter Three

Castiel looked at the clock beside his bed, its otherworldly green glow indicating that it was 11:45 at night. Normally, he would go for a run whenever he woke from a flashback. But when they would occur at times like this, in the middle of the night –when running through the city streets wasn't exactly safe– Castiel used to meditate. Lately, though, his meditations didn't lead him toward any conclusions he thought he should be having, so instead he decided to help himself to more chamomile tea.

He made his way down to the rectory's kitchen, putting the kettle on and leaning back against the counter, waiting for the water to boil. Just as it began to whistle, and he was pulling it off the burner, he heard a crashing sound, that of breaking glass cutting through the night, coming from across the alley. The sound was so close, it could only have originated from the church building itself. He dropped the kettle. Hastily grabbing the keys to the church on his way, he was out the back door before he had even stopped to consider his attire. Wearing only his pajamas, he made his bare-footed way across the dirty alley toward the church on the other side.

Upon entering the side door from the parking lot that lead into the narthex, Castiel stopped to listen. At first, everything seemed still, the only perceptible sound was that of his breathing, coming in hard, rapid puffs –partly from the unusual midnight disturbance, and partly from having run across the alley from the rectory to the church. He held his breath.

Finally, he heard a small noise. As quickly but as silently as he could, he followed it, making his way up the grand stairway that lead from the narthex to the nave.

Once inside, he could see a figure moving around the chancel. It wore dark jeans and a blood red sweatshirt, hood pulled up over its head. In its hand it held a can of spray paint, with which it was spraying the altar.

"Hey!" He called out, moving quickly forward, hoping to stop the vandal. He was momentarily shocked still, though, when the vandal turned around, looking over its shoulder at him. It was a woman, but that wasn't what shocked him. What shocked him was that she seemed to have black eyes. She only looked back at him long enough to smile a wicked smile at him, before moving to the left and exiting out of an already broken window in that side of the transept.

Aside from the black eyes, he could swear the face looked familiar, though he couldn't quite place her. He followed after her, sticking his head out of the broken window in an attempt to see which way she went. By the time he had reached the window, though, she had already disappeared.

He turned back to the altar, intending to asses the damage, but as he stepped toward it, he trod on a piece of broken glass that lay on the carpet below.

"Damnit!" he called out, before he could stop himself. Looking up at the statue of Jesus on the cross that hung on the wall behind the altar, he added a quick, "Sorry."

Leaning against the altar rails to look down at his foot, he watched as blood dripped from the wound, each drop pooling on the carpet for a second before soaking in. A small stain was already forming, a slightly darker red than the red of the carpet. Even as he watched, the blood dribbled out of him, the borders of the stain spreading slowly out from its center. He quickly whipped his pajama top off of his body, wrapping the cut and tying the sleeves around his foot to hold the makeshift bandage in place so that he wouldn't bleed all over the floor. With his foot now wrapped, Castiel limped towards the altar.

A symbol had been spray painted across its wooden top in black paint. Two lines formed what looked like a square-shaped upper-case L, with smaller Xs marking each of the ends as well as the point where they met. Halfway up the vertical part of the L, two shorter parallel lines crossed, their inner ends terminating in a small shared circle that sat in the very center of the whole figure. The area around the altar smelled strongly of sulfur.

His eyes wide, Castiel made his way back across the alley to the rectory, to tell Father Robert and call the police.

After they had made their call, while they were waiting for the squad car they had been told was already on the way, Castiel said to the older priest, "Father, I can't be sure… but I could swear it looked like the girl had black eyes."

"Demonic?" The older priest asked.

"I don't know. It smelled of sulfur in the area she had been, and that symbol—"

"I take it you recognized it?"

Castiel nodded, saying only, "Chenor."

That word meant nothing to the older priest. Then again, he wasn't the expert in this area.

* * *

Even more than their notorious reputations for focusing on social justice and human rights work, Jesuits are most known among Catholics for their affinity for higher education, many Jesuit priests studying well beyond the basic graduate-level coursework all priests must receive in seminary. Castiel was no exception to this trend. In his studies along his journey as a Jesuit, Castiel had earned a number of graduate degrees, including a doctorate in demonology. This was far from a typical field of focus, even among Catholic clergy.

His rare expertise in this area was one of the reasons he was assigned to St. Anthony Parish after his ordination as a priest. Among the few in the church who were knowledgeable about such things, there had been signs of increasing demonic activity in the area for a while.

Typically, priests who are members of religious orders like the Jesuits don't serve in local dioceses. Jesuits, though, go where they are most needed, and it was deemed by the higher-ups at the Vatican that Castiel was most needed at St. Anthony Parish. So Castiel found himself, not living among his fellow Jesuits in a community run by the order, but in a parish house, temporarily assigned to work under and live with Father Robert.

The older priest was well aware of the reason for Castiel's original assignment to his parish. In fact, it was the man's conversations with the previous bishop of his diocese that had lead to the young priest being assigned under him in the first place. But the older man didn't pretend to know anything about what was actually going on. Those original conversations focused mainly on the strange things that seemed to happen around the city, and how they seemed to be affecting his parishioners emotionally. His entire body of knowledge on the reality of what was going on, he had learned from the young man who was currently serving as his curate. Even though Father Robert was older, with more years as a priest under his belt than Castiel had, he would always defer to his subordinate in all things demonic.

* * *

After 45 minutes, a squad car had pulled up on the road in front of the Rectory, a lone police officer sent to respond to their call. He took statements from Castiel and Father Robert, and upon learning that Castiel had injured himself, called an ambulance crew to look at the priest's foot. The EMTs had treated his wound, cleaned and bandaged it, and given him instructions on follow-up care. The police officer had added the EMTs' statements to the report he was writing, took pictures of the scene, deposited the can of spray paint the vandal had left behind into a evidence bag, and left. Castiel didn't expect that they would hear anything more from law enforcement about the incident after that.

He was therefore surprised two days later when, while getting dressed for the day after his post-run shower, he had heard a knock on his bedroom door. On the other side had been Father Robert, letting him know that there were two FBI agents down in the library needing to speak with him.

"FBI? Investigating vandalism?" Castiel was highly doubtful federal agents would care about so mundane a crime.

"Apparently," the older priest shrugged, obviously not finding it as odd as Castiel did. "Maybe they think there's more going on here than there seems." He followed the suggestion up with a meaningful look to Castiel, who returned it.

Castiel finished dressing, and quickly combed through his still-wet hair before heading downstairs to meet with the men.

He took a deep breath outside the room, preparing himself for whatever was about to happen, and entered, speaking up as he did so, "Hello, I'm Father Castiel. Father Robert tells me you wish to speak to me."

Inside the room, the two men turned toward him, varying levels of surprise written across their faces. He had just seen these two men outside the church, running into them –quite literally– while out on his daily run. They both seemed shocked speechless to see him again now, but after a moment the taller man finally spoke, "Um, yes. I'm Special Agent Ulrich, and this is Special Agent Hetfield. We're here about the vandalism of the church Tuesday night." He held up his badge as he spoke, but Castiel didn't bother looking at it.

Instead, he kept his eyes focused on the man himself. "Ulrich and Hetfield, huh? And you're with the FBI, here to investigate a simple vandalism."

With some satisfaction, Castiel noticed that the taller man was starting to squirm.

"That's right." The other man, the one Castiel had literally run into earlier, finally spoke, advancing toward the priest, and drawing Castiel's gaze in the process. His shell-shocked expression had vanished, replaced instead with a cocky, confident look.

The man with (Castiel just noticed) green eyes had seemed overly flustered when they had collided outside, taking quite a while to recover enough to respond after Castiel had apologized and asked if he was okay.

"And you drive a vintage Impala." As he spoke, Castiel moved closer to the man, intending to remind him, at least subconsciously, of their previous encounter. He hoped that the reminder might evoke similar feelings in the man again, possibly tripping him up and making him accidentally let slip a hint at who they really were or why they were there, because if there was one thing Castiel was sure of, it was that these men definitely weren't FBI.

Unexpectedly, though, a brilliant and obviously very genuine smile lit up the man's face, and he spoke again, with another step forward. "Yep, isn't she pretty?"

Despite himself, Castiel chuckled.

Intellectually, he knew these men were lying to him, and he was definitely suspicious of their motives, but he couldn't help the fact that there was something about these men, especially the green-eyed one in front of him, that he found instantly likable.

Still, witty and charming though this lying stranger may be, Castiel would be a fool if he let the fact that he found the man utterly disarming trick him into complacency. Still, that didn't mean he had to be cold or unhelpful either. He wouldn't allow himself to inadvertently reveal anything potentially dangerous, but he could talk to them, enjoying their company as he did so. They may be there for nefarious purposes, but it was just as possible that they weren't.

"Alright," Castiel, at last, said, nodding his head toward the couch and chairs to the left on the far side of the room. "Have a seat. What would you like to know?"

The two phony FBI agents sat together on the couch. Feeling warm, Castiel took off his suit jacket and laid it over the back of his chair before sitting down in the seat, immediately unbuttoning the cuffs of his shirt so that he could roll them up to just under his elbows.

"Well," the taller man with the longer hair spoke, "We just wanted to hear your account about what happened first hand, possibly see if you've recalled anything else since you gave your statement in the police report."

So he told them. He definitely didn't give all the details, but he didn't lie to them either, not once. He found himself easily relaxing around the men, until something happened that sharpened his focus, drawing him out of his complaisant state.

The taller man had asked him if he had smelled anything unusual. That was not a question you'd assume one would normally ask a witness to a vandalism.

"Like what?" he had asked, praying that this man was merely using some sort of sensory focus tactic with him in an attempt to help his memory of the event, and was planning on asking him, individually, what he had seen, heard, smelled, tasted, and felt that night. Back when he was earning his undergraduate psychology degree, Castiel remembered learning that having someone focus on one sense at a time could actually help them recall details about an event that they didn't even realize they had retained. He fervently hoped that this man had some knowledge in psychology, at least enough that it would lead him to question witnesses in this way.

"Anything at all. Perfume, body odor…"

Castiel felt himself begin to relax as the taller man's reply seemed to indicate that the question was indeed meant as a sensory focus technique, until-

"…Sulphur?" The green-eyed man finished his partner's thought, and Castiel felt his stomach drop.

They knew something. They knew the kind of thing that might make them dangerous, the kind of thing that insured that Castiel should NOT underestimate them.

He turned his gaze on the man who had just spoke, tilting his head and squinting, as if willing his eyes some sort of magical ability to look deep enough into the other man's green ones that they might see into his soul.

"Why do you ask?" he questioned, voice as probing as his gaze.

But it was the taller man who replied. "Any little bit of information can help us."

Through some tricky verbal maneuvering, Castiel's reply wasn't technically a lie, though it was still intentionally misleading. No way was he going to give these men the information they were obviously groping for, information that indicated demon involvement.

But they were relentless. "May we see the altar that was defaced?"

There was no way that Castiel was going to let these men into the church, even if he accompanied them the whole time.

"The church is locked right now and we've sent the altar away to be sanded and refinished." Castiel had still not technically lied to them, which was more than could be said about them.

Suddenly, Castiel got an idea. "But we did take pictures for insurance," he offered, "Would you like to see them?"

Thankfully, the offer was enough to appease the taller man. "That'll work."

Castiel got up and made his way to the desk, sitting in the desk chair. He opened the drawer, pretending that he had to dig around to find the laptop that lay right there in front of him. Of course, from where the other men were, they couldn't see that.

What he was actually digging for was something else. He had exorcised and blessed large amounts of salt and holy water when he was first assigned to St Anthony's, leaving some in various places around the rectory and his office in the church, including the back of this particular drawer. He just hoped that Father Robert hadn't moved it…

Aha! He discreetly palmed the small glass vial that he found toward the back of the drawer, before grabbing the laptop. He moved again to the side of the desk nearest the two liars and carefully positioned the laptop on the edge of the desk directly in the mid-line of the throw rug that sat on the floor beneath. He turned his back on the men, facing the computer and opening it, using the short lag time that it took for the machine to power up and respond to his click on the folder that contained the pictures to quickly unscrew the plastic lid from the vial of holy water, and put it –very carefully– into his pants pocket.

When the first picture appeared on the screen, he turned back toward the men on the couch. "I've got them pulled up now," he beckoned them over with a wave, "Have a look."

He watched the men approach, paying particular attention to where their feet landed when they walked. Unfortunately the tallest one moved mostly along the edge of the room right up against the wall, and totally avoided stepping over the symbol that Castiel had painted on the underside of some of the rugs in the house. The one under the edge of this particular rug was only about a foot and a half in diameter, though, so fairly easy to miss.

The one with green eyes had avoided stepping through it too, but had moved to stand very close to Castiel once he had got to the desk. The painted figure was now directly behind the man. If Castiel could only make him back up a little bit-

The priest turned back around to operate the computer, keeping both men in his peripheral vision as much as possible as he did. It was easier with the green-eyed one, since he stood so close to Castiel, who could feel the warmth radiating from his body. The other, the taller one, was leaning casually back against the wall near the edge of the window directly behind the desk chair.

Castiel scrolled slowly through the relevant pictures, ending on the one that showed the symbol that had been painted on the altar.

When it appeared on the screen, the man closest to Castiel leaned in even closer, his chest actually grazing the priest's back as he asked, "Does this mark mean anything to you?"

Castiel turned his body around to face the man. The man had been so close, the only way the priest had actually been able to turn his whole body was by shifting his weight across hip, smoothly, yet very quickly transitioning from leaning over the desk to sitting on the edge of it. He had done this roll so quickly and seamlessly, the man who was still leaning forward into where Castiel's neck would be, if he were standing rather than sitting, hadn't even had time to react.

He reacted now, though. Startled to unexpectedly find the priest's face so close to his own, he recoiled, snapping his spine upright immediately. Unfortunately, he didn't take a step back.

"Does it mean anything to you?" Castiel repeated the man's own question back to him, stepping off the desk and moving forward until, again, his face was incredibly close to the other man's.

"No, it doesn't."

The man's answer appeared genuine. He had taken a rather large step backward as he spoke, and Castiel knew that he was standing fully within the circle painted on the carpet below him. It was now the moment of truth. One more step backward would definitely move the man right out of the circumference of the circle, assuming he was able to take that step. If he couldn't…

Castiel feared that his face would betray his anticipation, so he attempted to angle his head downward, pointing his nose towards the man's feet rather than his face. The green-eyed man was a few inches taller than Castiel, so this way his face wasn't presented so openly for the other man's scrutiny. He kept his eyes focused intensely on the other man's, though, forcing himself to look up at the taller man through his lashes in the process.

"Would you like a copy of the image?" He had intended it to be a whisper, but the angle of his neck made it hard to get sufficient air through his throat to produce an audible whisper, so he had to add some vocalization, causing his question to nearly came out as a growl. As he spoke, he took one more step, deliberately inserting himself into the other man's personal space.

The man took a big step back, causing a big smile to beam across Castiel's face. This man wasn't possessed by a demon.

'So much for the devil's power to assume a pleasing shape,' Castiel thought to himself, followed immediately by the acknowledgment that that hadn't been a very appropriate thought. This was the first time he had had a thought like that about a specific man, rather than just 'men' in general, in quite a while. Of course, if ever there were a man worthy of those kinds of thoughts, he figured, it would be the one in front of him.

He was tall; that was a given. He was also obviously strong –reasonably muscled, but not overly so. Despite the fact that he was wearing a suit, Castiel could tell that he had a body meant to be sculpted into marble. Plus, when he had touched the guy earlier, grabbing his arm to prevent him from falling over when he had crashed into him on his run, he had felt a bicep moving under his grip -firm with just the right amount of give.

His face was the ideal representation of Phi, the Golden Ratio, the Divine Proportion, the Marquardt Mask. Faces like that were why Renaissance artists took up their brushes and chisels in the first place. His lips were, quite frankly, perfect –just the right thickness and shape. When they curved into a smile, they made the priest feel like his stomach was trying to leap out of its spot. Castiel bet those lips were soft as well. And finally, of course, were his eyes. Those amazing eyes –emerald, with streaks of jade and tiny flecks of gold -just a hint of glitter to catch and play with the light- all contained within a thin circular line of darker forest green. Those intoxicating eyes, which were currently so close to his own, Castiel could actually see them slowly dilating as he gazed into them.

More important, of course, was personality. Castiel didn't know the guy very well, it's hard to when someone has been lying to you from the moment you met. Still, the priest could tell a few things about him. He had a sense of humor for one thing, which was probably one of the personality traits that Castiel found most attractive in a person. He was obviously brave as well; showing up for some unknown reason to investigate random crimes, even though he knew that they might involve demons. If the man were also intelligent, selfless, loyal, determined, passionate, altruistic, dedicated, and of course—attracted to men, he could be the man of Castiel's dreams.

Of course, even without the personality, Castiel knew that the man would probably still be making a few appearances in the his dreams. He was still remarkably attractive.

Unexpectedly, a voice sounded from beside the priest, breaking him from his reverie. "Yes, please. That would be helpful. Thank you."

What?

Confused for a moment, Castiel finally tore his eyes away from where they had been for the past minute, focused on breathtakingly brilliant green ones. He had forgotten that there was someone else in the room.

What would be helpful? Oh, the picture!

Quickly flicking his eyes back toward the Adonis for only a second, he turned his body away, back toward the computer, to print the picture as requested. He didn't turn around to look at the green-eyed man again. He knew that it would be an exceedingly bad idea. Instead he kept his gaze fixed resolutely on the computer screen, waiting for the page to finish printing.

He couldn't allow his reaction to the good-looking man to distract him further. He may not be a demon, but that didn't mean the bigger one he was with wasn't. Castiel reached his hand into the right pocket of his pants, tipping the glass vial slightly, coating the tips of his fingers with the holy water within.

Finally, the ink cartridge made its last pass across the bottom of the page, and the paper dropped into the collection tray. Castiel leaned forward to grab it from the printer, which was sitting on the opposite corner of the desk, with the hand he had just pulled from his pocket, and quickly turned to deposit it directly into the hand of the tallest man, making sure that his holy water-soaked fingers brushed against the man's skin as he did so.

There was no reaction.

Neither of them were demons, but that didn't necessarily mean that they were allies. They were, after all, lying to him.

"Well, have a nice day, gentlemen." Castiel made his way toward the door, opening and holding it for them to let them know he intended to escort them out now. He made extra sure not to look at the gorgeous man again, not appreciating his apparent lack of control over his own thoughts surrounding the man. He didn't want to add any more inappropriate thoughts to the list that he already knew he would have to confess to Father Robert tonight.

He let them out of the library and all the way to the back door, all the while successfully avoiding looking directly at the green-eyed man. He almost made it, until the moment their eyes inadvertently connected just as the handsome man walked by him on his way out the door into the alley. Though it was fleeting, that look alone would probably lead to the need for a few more confessions down the line.

After closing the door behind the men, Castiel hurried up into his room, the window of which looked out across the alley toward the church. He put a finger between two of the blinds, taking a breath before pulling the blinds apart so that he could look down to the parking lot below. The two men were still lingering, having not yet gotten into their car. The priest was silently thankful that they had parked at an angle so that he was currently viewing the car from the passenger's side. He had the perfect view of the driver's face, as well as the back of his taller passenger's head. As Castiel watched, the handsome man finally unlocked the car and lowered himself down into it, disappearing from the priest's view.

Castiel turned away from the window, falling back against the wall beside it with a sharp intake of breath, followed by a long, breathy exhale of, "Jesus Christ..."

He immediately vowed to himself that he wouldn't make another sound until he got a chance to confess to Father Robert.


	4. Chapter Four

_"There it was, the choice I'd confronted so often in life:_  
 _the path of least resistance, or the walk over hot coals."_  
― Greg Iles

Chapter Four

The guilt and shame was overwhelming, and Castiel couldn't wait another second to confess. It was all he could think about, and until he did so, he knew he would be unable to focus on anything else.

He always had a sick feeling of dread when he had things of this nature to confess. Of course, everything that had happened to him when his father had found out about his attractions had left their mark on him, but it wasn't only that. His old priest growing up, as well as many of the others that he regularly confessed to in his high school and college years, had been rather harsh with Castiel. It was obvious many of them had felt that his same-sex inclinations made him unfit for the priesthood, despite the fact that he never acted on his feelings.

Father Robert was different from the others. He seemed to have a more modern-secular view of homosexuality. He was the first priest to whom Castiel made confession who didn't treat his attractions as a bad thing. Of course, as a priest, Castiel had taken vows of chastity, and Father Robert never encouraged the young priest to break his vows by acting on his attractions, but he always stressed that the attractions themselves were natural, and no different than any attraction any other person, even priests, felt.

Of course, this approach always caught Castiel off guard. Even now, nearing five years of serving directly under the older priest, Castiel was always surprised when the older man responded with understanding and compassion rather than harsh criticism when Castiel confessed to homosexual thoughts.

And he always confessed. Despite the negative reactions of which he had been on the receiving end all his life, from every other priest to whom he had ever confessed, Castiel always confessed. Every dream, every thought, every time he caught himself gazing just a little too intensely at an attractive man, Castiel confessed it all.

And he certainly had something to confess now.

Castiel quickly made his way to the upstairs study, in which he knew he would find Father Robert.

* * *

"Father Robert, may I make confession?" The young man, usually so polite, burst into the room with a look on his face nearing panic. Bobby had left the young priest with the FBI agents only about an hour ago, and this sudden urgency in his curate caused a jolt of fear to shoot through the older priest. Fearing that this had something to do with demons, he ignored the unusual behavior from the younger man and invited him in to sit and confess what he needed.

He did sit, immediately crossing himself before he began to speak.

"Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. It has been five days since my last confession."

"Okay, Castiel, let's hear it."

"One of those FBI agents-" Castiel swallowed thickly, and the knot in the older priest's stomach tightened, preparing for what was to come.

"I had a reaction to him," Castiel continued.

Bobby held his breath, waiting for the shoe to drop. What horror was soon to come upon their parish? Should he prepare for the apocalypse?

Why had Castiel stopped talking?

Finally, the suspense overwhelmed him, and the older priest spoke, "And what was your sin, Castiel?"

Finally, the younger priest spoke. "Um, I uh- I noticed that he's a very…very good looking man, and he made me laugh. I- I thought about what he must look like, feel like, under his clothes."

Castiel finally looked up from his own shoes, on which he had been intensely focusing since he had sat down.

Bobby blinked at him for a moment. When it finally occurred to him, he nearly melted back into his own chair, his tense knot of fear dissolving. This wasn't about demons. There was no plague about to be released on mankind. This was about sex. That was easy to deal with.

Then again, the look of anguish in Castiel's eyes would have been heart wrenching, if Bobby hadn't been giddy with relief. He felt himself having to hold back a cathartic chuckle as the last of his tension was released. This may not be the end of the world, but his curate was going through a spiritual crisis. Something must have occurred with the FBI agent.

"What happened?"

"Well, they knew something about the vandalism; at least that it was demonic. I checked, and they weren't possessed, themselves, but they weren't being forthright either. I gave them very little to go on, but I did give them a copy of the sigil that was spray painted on the altar, then I showed them out."

"And…?"

Castiel cocked his head to the side in confusion. "What?"

"What was your sin?"

"Well, like I said, I had thoughts. I didn't try to stop them. I reveled in them."

He hadn't done anything. Bobby silently shook his head.

Even before he had met Castiel, Bobby had considered same-sex attraction to be a natural variant of human sexuality, and not inherently sinful. Other than his private disagreement with the Catholic Church's official stance on the subject, though, he had never really thought too much about it.

Once he had met his newest curate, however, he had felt compelled to learn more about the topic. When the young priest had first told him about what had had been done to him in his teen years, the older priest had had trouble believing him. How could someone subject a child to so cruel a torture over so insignificant an issue? Sadly, upon further research on the matter, the priest had found out that Castiel's story was all too common. Many people had been subject to similar barbaric "treatments," Bobby was ashamed of the Catholic Church of the past for condoning such practices. Seeing the damage that had been done to the younger man, Bobby had privately vowed to himself that no longer would gay, lesbian, or bisexual people who came to him for guidance be made to feel that there was something wrong with them.

Time and again, he had tried to make Castiel understand that there was nothing bad or sinful about feeling sexual attraction, but he was only one sane voice in a sea of idjits who had been working on the younger priest since he was a boy. For such a smart guy, Castiel was frustratingly slow to learn this particular lesson.

"Are you trying to give me a heart attack, boy? You come in here like the sky is falling right after you meet with the FBI about a demonic attack, making me think that Armageddon is upon us. I finally figure out that this is about the gay thing, and I'm sitting here thinking you pulled this guy into the kitchen pantry and gave him a blowjob, or something, and this is all just about some dirty thoughts? You did NOTHING WRONG!"

"Well, I- I did take the Lord's name in vain."

"Take the Lord's— for the love of— Say ten Hail Marys," the priest commanded, dismissively. "Through the ministry of the Church may God give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Now get the hell out of here."

Castiel jumped out of his seat as if it had been electrified. "Thank you, Reverend Father. I'm sorry for disturbing you."

The young priest awkwardly half-bowed, then turned to leave, but Bobby grabbed his arm, stopping his retreat.

"When will you realize that there's nothing wrong with you? There's only something wrong with the institution you work for."

Bobby wasn't kidding about there being something wrong with the Catholic Church, and their treatment of homosexuality wasn't the only problem.

* * *

Six years ago, because of what had started out as a few unexplainable occurrences that seemed to be centered around one of his parishioners, Bobby had spoken to his then bishop, Rufus Turner. Not really understanding what was happening, but more just venting to a man who had been his friend for years, Bobby had been surprised when Rufus had called him back shortly after, telling him that a new curate was to be assigned to work under him, to help with the strange incidents.

At first when the young priest had arrived, explaining what he did and why he was there, Bobby thought that it was all some elaborate prank that Rufus was playing on him. Demonic possession just seemed regulated to Biblical times, and the early church's misunderstanding of mental illness. But Bobby had soon become a believer. Ultimately, he had seen for himself how Castiel had helped the girl and her family.

Something had greatly bothered Bobby at the time, though. When the incidents had begun escalating, and it had become obvious that what they had on their hands was an honest to goodness case of demonic possession, Castiel had not been allowed to proceed with the Rite of Exorcism until he had direct authorization from above. The higher ups wouldn't take Castiel's report on the situation; they required direct verification from some muckety-muck from Rome before they would let the young priest deal with it, despite pleas from Castiel, Bobby, and even Rufus, that the situation was dire and warranted immediate action.

The girl had started deteriorating quickly, and Castiel had the key that could alleviate the situation almost instantly, but his hands were tied. Bobby had to watch the young priest practically drown in his own frustration as he was forced to sit idly by, waiting for some idjit on a flight from Rome to show up. Even when the girl's mother had been gravely injured during a violent outburst from the girl, Castiel could do nothing.

Finally, the delayed flight had arrived, and Castiel had been given permission to proceed. The girl made a full recovery, but her mother hadn't made it.

Bobby had been angry at The Church over the whole issue, but what pissed him off the most was that Castiel blamed himself for the woman's death. The man had found himself having to choose between breaking his vow of obedience and prolonging a young girl's suffering, enduring his own suffering right along with her. Of course, they had no way of knowing at the time that delaying exorcism for those crucial few hours would ultimately lead to the mother's death, or any other permanent consequence. In hindsight, Bobby had no doubt that Castiel should have performed that exorcism, permission and vows of obedience be damned, but he carried absolutely no blame toward Castiel. It killed Bobby to see how the consequences of his choice to follow his vows tortured the young man.

Bobby had no doubt that Castiel was a gift from God, placed here to help anyone in need. He also had no doubt that the restrictions the Catholic Church placed on the young priest were morally wrong. He should be free to help whomever, wherever, and whenever it was needed, and anything that got in the way of that would have to go.

Bobby's beef with The Church had only increased when Rufus had died, and the new bishop chosen to replace him had carried some sort of deep antipathy toward the young curate. He seemed to no only have a problem with what the kid did –not surprising, since true demonic possession was largely considered a phenomenon of the past– but seemed to have some sort of problem with the kid himself. Bobby wondered if rumors of the kid's sexuality had somehow spread to the new bishop, because he couldn't figure any other reason to dislike the kid.

* * *

After confessing, Castiel couldn't stop thinking about the FBI agents. It wasn't (only) because of the things he had confessed. He had been assigned to St. Anthony's to explore the demonic activity, after all, and there was no doubt that this whole situation reeked of sulfur.

Adjourning to the library after his confession, Castiel powered up the computer. He found the phone number for the local FBI field office and called, asking to speak to agent Ulrich or Hetfield. The receptionist didn't seem to know who he was talking about. Upon being transferred to the Special Agent in Charge, Castiel's suspicions were confirmed when she had not only never heard of either man, but told Castiel that there were no agents from outside offices currently working in the area.

The two men weren't FBI, that was for sure. So who the hell were they, and why had they lied?

* * *

A/N: Unfortunately, in the past I've been the kind of author who really sucks at updating. It was something I intended to work on, so I want to apologize to my readers who got into this story, and went without an update for so long. I can only offer 1) my meager justifications that within the past months, we adopted a new puppy and I had surgery, from which I am still recovering, and 2) my promises that I will try to update my Supernatural stories more regularly in the future.


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